


Drabbles in the Fade

by Symmet



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:45:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symmet/pseuds/Symmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of very short works inspired much in part by one Dread Wolf, and the machinations of his Heart thereafter.</p><p>Of course, there's all sorts of other things happening, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brittle

**Author's Note:**

> 100 word drabble

A part of her is brittle now, she thinks, _bitter_.

She cannot hate him, though. Never could. No matter how she had tried. For both their sakes.

_Do you remember what you said?_

"I would not wish this in an enemy, let alone someone I actually cared for."

_And yet you did, both of them, forced me to be your enemy when you would not let me be your Heart._

_You chose the world over me and in so doing forced me to do the same back to you._

_And if there was ever something I could hate you for, it's that._


	2. Of Flora Themed Metaphors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas wonders what Deus thinks of the Creators.

He finds her, of course, in Skyhold's courtyard. The area designated for gardening, more specifically.

She is on her knees, amongst the plants and mud, elfroot leaves scattered, clinging to her hair, the fringes of her gloves, one tucked precariously on the edge of her boot. Her face has a smear of grime, her braids tightly wound into a bun, her clothes plain and dirtied. 

Somehow, Solas is not sure if he has ever seen something so beautiful.

She has not noticed him yet, grappling like a veteran with some Crystal Grace - " _Wicked_ Grace, more like." She grumbles to herself in annoyance as the flower resists her efforts to cultivate it. That causes him to chuckle. _Ah_ , he has been spotted.

His amusement earns him a wry huff, but he catches a good natured gleam in her eye as she turns back towards her stubborn charge. He meanders closer, arms behind his back, quietly watching. Eventually she snorts and manages to deftly pluck the small bloom without damaging the petals. Skillful, his Lavellan, and he would proclaim that to the world as much as her grace.

She pulls off her gloves - she has her prize, and gently places the flower into a bowl and covers it. She will bring that to the Apothecary later, or offer it to the healers for the wounded. But for now, the morning is new, the light is soft, and Skyhold is, for just the barest moment, quiet.

She leans back to look up at him, raising an eyebrow.

He snorts, but acquiesces to her silent request. If she, a rogue who used to harbor deep fear for magic and the Fade, can come to trust him enough to follow him there in dreams and give safe quarter to the mages with enough conviction to convince Cassandra and Cullen, then he surely can stand to sit beside her in the mud.

This gains him a brilliant smile.

"To what do I owe your company, vhenan?" She says, a smile in her voice, "Usually you take longer to get up, not that I am complaining. Be it far from me to assume things, but it is my current observation that you are _not_ a morning person."

"As astute as that impression may be, can I not simply enjoy being around you for the sake of it?" He says, mock affronted, leaning back into her chest.

Instead of rolling her eyes, she hums in agreement, wrapping her arms around his stomach and laying her chin on her shoulder.

After a moment of silence, he adds, "Usually you stay in bed with me. I don't generally have to get dressed to keep your company."

He is rewarded a moment later with bright laughter, curling golden around his ear. He does not have to turn to see her, but he does anyway. He relishes the quiet, simple moments between them. Tries not to let the worry claw at his gut. That he cannot be with her. That if she _knew_ who he was...

The stark branches of Mythal claim her laughing face, but a cold weight has settled in his gut. He has spoiled the moment, if only for himself. It is so easy.

"Vhenan?" She murmurs softly, and a gentle hand strokes the other side of his face, "What troubles you?"

So sharp, his rogue, so quick, and clever.

"What do you think of the Dalish gods?" He says suddenly, filled with the ache to know, "What would you say of them to someone who did not know of them?"

She blinks in surprise at the random request, but instead of questioning him, she tilts her head to think about it, and he relaxed against her.

"I... well I'm by no means a normal Dalish -" She starts, almost apologetically, and he laughs.

"And I am glad for it." He says, cutting her off, "But I am curious of what you do think of them. You know my thoughts. That they were not Gods at all. But..."

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, chuckling, "Well, in the spirit of our current location, an appropriate metaphor, then." her arms tighten around his waist, and she grins uncertainly at him.

"I think of the Elvhen Creators a bit like people who found a patch of land and planted a great many flowers. I think the elves are those flowers, and perhaps too quickly attributed omnipotence to the gardeners. They could pick a plant or nurture it, like the favor or ire gods could give. I don't know. They were... they were people. Like you or I. Had their moments of brilliance, their blunders, too. I don't think a single one of them did not suffer for their power, though." she sighs, dissatisfied, "I... I'm not sure what you're asking, to be honest, Solas. I don't know. I like to think its a decent enough metaphor to describe a culture that existed thousands of years before my time and whose history is virtually inaccessible to me."

Solas' chest hurts slightly, from some pressure like joy, he thinks, and he twists more fully to grasp her chin in his hand.

"Not inaccessible," He murmurs, eyes on her lips, "Not with the Fade available to us."

She opens her mouth to perhaps remind him that the Fade is not exactly available to her, specifically, but he leans in to kiss her.

She tastes of Crystal Grace and the open sky and just the sweetest hint of the Fade.


	3. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Orlesian and other "sophisticated" politics.

_The Game, they say it so alluringly, this wretched toy of the sick and lost._

She tries not to curl her lip, because that is something they would do. No, she does not sneer. She grimaces, pulls her lips up to bare her teeth, because she is a wolf. She does not smile, not behind a mask, she snarls silently, grins her malcontent, her rage, for all the world to test.

But still Josephine takes her hand, it is gloved, slight, delicate fabric, yet it suffocates her skin. She is supposed to dance, wild and free. She is not meant to be contained by satin and lace. She should not have jangling bangles at her wrists, but hidden daggers. She is a wild halla, finding a blasphemous saddle upon her back. She is a hunter betrayed to her prey by the tinkling of sequins draped over her body.

Josephine guides her steps, the music is not playing because she is told she must be able to dance without it, and Josephine is murmuring the names of nobles and their weaknesses. It is unnecessary but appreciated. Not the knowledge. The soft, urgent lilt of Josephine's voice. She is tuning it out, internalizing her steps as they dance. She does not need to be versed in the Game.

They assume the Dalish have no knowledge of it, that they are barbarians, knowing only the wild. But the Game is only an imitation of the Wild. Their masks are camouflage as they hunt - their dance is the careful steps as one stalks their prey, the bow is the visceral pounce. She is a hunter. It has been months since she saw her clan, but the Game is eternal, as old as the Wild.

She remembers.

_The Game, like it was a mystery, a secret they would share with you, when it hid only the most basic desires. Fuck, Want, Kill. Satisfy nothing, no one and not yourself. The Game, how desirable. The Game, how intriguing, how sophisticated, to plunge into the muck and moor of rotting nobility, the pussing, oozing remains of higher, higher, higher class._

They turn and she allows Josephine to twirl in her arms. Lilienna had smiled at her when they taught her the motions, a glint in her eye as they two rogues silently agreed. These steps were not complicated, despite Josephine's protests. They were the careful, cautious steps over rocky terrain or dry leaves. They were not new to her. They were probably older than Orelsian politics, truth be told. Petty squabbles over money could only pale in comparison to the Wild, to the vicious struggle and song of life itself.

_The ant stain, The Game, the truth bane, The Game. Come play, they said, lavish masquerade masks, Come see what I hide beneath. They only wanted the attention, they only wanted the chase._

She could give them attention, and make them regret that desire. Let them feel wolf eyes on their own, and then their smiles will falter.

She could give them the chase, and then they would stumble. The wolf would take no half measures. She would tear at their throats.

Oh, yes, she would catch them, playing their own game.

_And the underneath? So unbearably plain._

Josephine dips her, and she hears in the tone of her voice that their session has drawn to a close. She draws back to the moment to catch the last of her soft words.

She will take Solas to this Winter Palace, she thinks. Perhaps he will like seeing her run circles around these nobles. It will certainly amuse her.

Josephine bows, and she mimics with her own - the Inquisitor will not curtsey, she had argued, Josephine had eventually allowed. Her form is perfect, Josephine smiles at this, looking for a moment less anxious about the end of the world. She smiles back. They part ways.

By her bedstand lays a thick, royal envelope. She fingers the torn wax seal. An invitation to a Winter Palace. Yes, she will definitely be bringing Solas. 

_Come, come play the game._


	4. Owned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and the Inquisitor have a talk.

The conversation starts innocuously enough, when Cassandra asks what the Inquisitor plans to do at the Winter Palace besides the politics. They had just finished a bout of training in the courtyard, and retreated to the small shaded area where Cassandra usually trained alone. To sweat and come down from the high of short breath and thrilling exertion. 

“Undoubtably go wherever I am directed. If you lot did not own me the way you do, I doubt I would willingly attend.” The Inquisitor huffs out half-jokingly after taking a swig from a cask of water. It comes out more bitter than she had intended, attributed mostly to the hellish lessons Josie, bless her heart, had forced her into. The Inquisitor had never been especially fond of the Game.

“You belong to no one but yourself.” The warrior starts, sounding as firm as ever.

“No, no no-“ she cuts off her friend, “Maybe once, but the more you love people, the more you give of yourself to them. That is why you have a right to be furious when I do something reckless with my life. Because a part of me belongs with you. And with them. And the same is true reversely. When you take too many hits because you wouldn’t wait for a barrier or wanted to block the extra bandit from getting at us, we get upset, as we have that privilege. Because while you’re busy trying to protect the piece of you that we carry, we’re worrying about the piece of us that we gave to you. And should one of us die, the pieces we each gave will die with them. So no. I belong to you, and Varric, and Solas, and everyone else I’ve dared to love on this stupid, ridiculous venture of holes in skies and ancient magisters and so forth.”

The Inquisitor took a breath, wetted her lips. Cassandra sits, mulling it over in surprised contemplation.

Finally she settles with, “You certainly have a way with words, Inquisitor. Perhaps you too should write your own books on your ventures.” Then after a moment a look of distaste flashed across her face, "Though I doubt I’ll find much pleasure in reading what you think of me, whatever light you might chose to cast me in.”

The Inquisitor barks a laugh at that, startled from the somberness of the previous moment, “And dare tread upon Varric’s spotlight? No, I’ll let the masters to their craft while I meekly wave my glowing arm about over here. To each their own and all that.”

They chuckled quietly, comfortable. They would not speak of it again, but sometimes, in the middle of battle when blood was flowing heavily or enemy numbers felt too high, Cassandra would turn to parry a blow and feel a barrier descend. She’d catch two bright eyes from feet away, and they’d share one moment of knowing before she turned back into the fray, letting a bandit slip past her towards Varric or Solas and knowing that they could handle themselves, and she needed to trust them as they trusted her.


	5. The Garlic Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tangled knot of smiles and not smiles and garlic in-between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cole cover because why not
> 
> #  [ ](http://s1295.photobucket.com/user/arlanengin/media/smiles%20and%20not%20smiles%20cover_zpszd1wfycv.png.html)

The night she came to her room to find three garlic bunches hanging on her ceiling, she was confused. She had taken them down, set them aside, and crawled into bed. That morning when she woke up to find them back in their place on the ceiling, she was unnerved. When she'd taken them down, given them to the kitchen staff, and returned that afternoon to find a new set awaiting, Deus Lavellan was officially worried.

The smell of garlic was starting to wear on her, and she thought perhaps she'd done something to offend their resident (and her personal favorite) spirit.

He wasn't in his usual alcove above the bar when she went to check, which meant she had to wait another three days before she got her answer.

She saw him when she'd gone to visit Varric and had blurted out - much to her own chagrin, "Cole, why is there garlic hanging in my room?"

Before the soft spoken spirit could answer, Varric mumbled a soft and emphatic, "Shit. Sorry, Smiles."

She leveled a small frown his way at the nickname, but Cole had found his voice.

"Her father used to hang the wild garlic from the ceiling to dry, and now she doesn't cook anymore. She wants to but she's afraid it will hurt, not help. Garlic kills infection but it still stings." He paused and added almost apologetically, "I couldn't find any wild garlic."

She hummed her agreement. Wild garlic would have been nicer, she supposes, if only for aesthetic reasons.

Varric laughed, "When he asked me if it was okay to hang garlic in someone's room, I told him to go nuts unless it was some stuffy noble." He shrugged, "My bad."

She sighed and waved him off, "It's fine. Just... next time, Cole? I would appreciate some warning." She said hopefully.

Cole nodded seriously, "It was for the maid who visits when you're away. She screamed when I put it in her room, and I had to make her forget. She's almost ready, I just need..."

He started mumbling to himself about wooden bears and cheese wheels, so Lavellan assumed that their conversation was over.

She reached up to rub a little spot of dirt from Cole's cheek and immediately he said, "Smiles, of all things. I don't smile often enough for it. Why Smiles?"

She huffed in surprise and withdrew.

Varric rolled his eyes at her, grinning smugly. They'd been over this, of course.

"Is that nickname hurting you, Inquisitor?" Varric asked, a touch sarcastic, then a touch genuinely worried.

Cole, after all, could only sense thoughts tangled with hurt. Of some kind.

She snorted, "Hardly. But it is extremely ineffectual for diplomatic maneuvering when racist nobles assume because of a friendly nickname that they can walk all over me."

"They regret it." Cole added.

Varric shrugged, "I thought your whole "it's sarcastic" ploy worked."

She flushed and shook her head slightly. He'd heard about that? Damn.

They all heard someone distantly calling for her and she took the escape readily.

She gave a mock bow to the dwarf. "As you were, Master Tethras."

"Later, Smiles."

She frowned and then left.

It wasn't that it was necessarily a bad nickname. Okay, a part of her insisted it was, but that wasn't the important part.

It was also silly and demeaning to the image she'd tried to build. No, not demeaning, but undermining perhaps.

As Varric put it, in his naturally poetic way, of course, the day they'd met, she'd been a grim little thing.

Covered in dirt, and blood, and demon bits. Surrounded by hostility, both in her supposed companions and the hole in the sky and possibly just the universe itself. Not to mention the unknown magic infused to her hand that was killing her.

And somehow, in the midst of it all, she'd turned to him suddenly and flashed him a smile.

What was it he had said?

_A bright, shocking smile. It became the center piece of all attention. It's shine had diminished all dark things that surrounded it, bringing to clarity one thought; this girl is not the monster who caused this._

_Cassandra had seen it and felt guilt for her threats. Solas had seen it and felt guilt for her tragic end. Varric had seen it and whooped._

_"That's the spirt, Smiles! You beat the **shit** outta those demons!" He'd crowed, earning him a wider smile._

Or so he'd written.

"Maybe its because they're so hard won," he mused immediately after as she stared down at the page in shocked silence, "Or maybe it's just your exceptionally white teeth."

She hadn't even had the ability to blush at his words, only scoff. She had noticed Cassandra and Solas coughing awkwardly beside her, though she reasoned Solas for reasons that _would_ make her blush and Cassandra, as she would later learn, because she loved Varric's writing.

-

Of course, when she became Solas' Heart - and he hers - she would know Varric must have gotten a quiet thrill of pervasive joy the first time he wrote "Smiles and Chuckles fell in love." And proceeded to snort with abandon to himself. As if he had called it - as if he had true powers of perception beyond all mortal understanding - "My _nicknames_ ," he would remind her often, grinning cheekily, "Are _prophetic_ , O Herald."

He was wrong, of course. Not that it had been his fault in any way.

That Solas had other ideas.

And when he broke her heart, it lost its allure as a joke, because it went from _She smiles rarely_ to _She doesn't smile at all_ , with that ironic pang that calling someone as massive as The Iron Bull "Tiny" often brought to bear. Except this wasn't funny, and it twisted to something more bitter when she stopped smiling completely.

The nobles never bothered her again.


	6. A Familiar Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Compassion sometimes needs comfort, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I point out that technically none of these stories are connected to each other? They will generally have Lavellan with the same name - because that makes it easier for everyone - but still. Just fyi.
> 
> ALSO here b a cover
> 
> #  [](http://s1295.photobucket.com/user/arlanengin/media/little%20prince_zpsnxshkvwr.png.html)
> 
> # 

"I could have saved them."

They're in the inquisition camp, trying to recover their strength when she notices Cole at the edge, arms wrapped around himself, legs drawn up.

They had had an awful day. They'd come across a village full of lesser terrors, ripping people apart.

She crouches in front of him. Spirits were more honest than humans, she'd long ago learned. But he was more human now, and susceptible to human doubts and guilts. Simply attempting to reassure him couldn't have helped was likely an ineffectual choice, then.

She'd have to help him learn. On his own, so he could help himself when she wasn't around. Assuredly because she'd be dead.

"I could have saved them." He repeats.

So instead she carefully says, "Why didn't you?"

She doesn't see Solas flinch from where he'd been tending bed rolls some several feet away, nor the frown. It's just as well, as she would have quickly disengaged and fled, neither of them ever knowing she would presently regain his approval ten-fold.

"I was with you. I knew you would be safe but I stayed anyways and didn't help the girl locked in her closet, the boy under the collapsed roof, the man with the broken leg, the woman fighting with a frying pan. Dead, all dead now."

He seemed to curl in on himself and she steadily placed a hand on his shoulder. She wasn't sure if he liked physical touch now that he was human, but this was no time for her to doubt, especially if there was a chance he needed it.

"Then you couldn't have saved them. Not really, not without sacrificing one of us. You don't know that we would have survived without you."

When it didn't seem to convince him, she settled into a sitting position across him, folding her legs over each other.

"Cole, even when I know you would have been safe and stealthy, I still went with you to find the Templar. Even though I know Varric is clever and quick, I still went with him to smash red lyrium. Even though I know Solas is strong and smart, I still went with him to find his artefacts. Because the chance is too much to take. So even though you know Cassandra is strong and Solas can cast barriers and I can take care of myself, you stayed with us to make sure."

Cole dipped his head as he processed this information.

For a long while neither of them said anything, but eventually he looked up at her with wet eyes.

"What do we do now?"

Her heart clenched. "We make sure we save more lives tomorrow and to remember the ones we didn't."

Cole nodded seriously and she helped him up, "I won't forget them, I wouldn't want to be forgotten." He agreed, almost relieved.

They don't see Solas turn his head away slightly, face shadowed but expression soft and contemplative. It's not a hurt and those are harder to hear now anyways, so Cole doesn't notice. He is looking at her and she at him. Cole blinks.

She is watching him apprehensively.

"Yes." He mumbled to her.

"Hmm?" 

"Yes, I'd like a hug."

A smile spreads across her face triumphantly, surprised that he'd heard and more surprised that he wanted it. He returned with a small smile of his own. So she wrapped her arms around him.

"You are not alone, Cole." She whispered, "You are part of a whole. You will never be forgotten so long as I live."

"Thank you." He whispered back.


End file.
